One last letter...

أهكذا تموت الأبطال؟

مضى أسـبوع على رحيلك، يا حسـام، وقد ملأت هذه الصفحات بجمل ورسـائل لم تكتمل... خانتني اللغة مرة ومراراً، ورفض منطقي الكلام عنك بصيغة الماضي... عنّدت، كذّبت الخبر، كذّبت كل ما قرأت عن الحادث... وأنت تعلم تماماً أسـبابي، تعلم كيف يبني المرء جداراً في صميمه ليحمي نفسـه من وقع الفاجعة، لفترة بسـيطة على الأقل، كي تسـنح له الفرصة ليسـتوعب ما جرى ويقوى على تقبّله.

واليوم، عليّ أن أقبل أنك رحلت. عليّ أن أقبل أنني وجدتك منذ عامين، وجدتك بعد بحث طال العشـرون سـنة منذ تخرّجنا المدرسـي، ليس لأفقدك اليوم، بل كي أكسـبك في تاريخ حياتي كالرجل المسؤول، كالأب الحنون، كالحالم المخطط الطموح الذي وصل الى مراده دون قسـاوة أو غرور... هل تعلم كم يفرحني هذا؟ كم يفرحني أن حياتك كانت ملأى بالحب والنجاح والمغامرات... أنها كانت ملأى بالحياة، وأن من حسـن حظي أن أسـمع عنها منك.

يفرحني أن الطبيب الناجح لم يتخلّى عن صفات شـبابه، وبقي كريم النفـس والعزّ، بقي بتلك الضحكة الخافتة، شـبه الخجولة، وتلك الابتسـامة الماكرة الدافئة التي طالما جعلتني أضحك على غلطتي التي كشـفتها دون أن أخجل منها.

يفرحني أنني اسـتعدت صوتك في آخر كتاباتنا وأننا عدنا أصدقاء وليـس ذكريات.

وسـتبقى هكذا، يا حسـام، صديق عزيز حثّني على النجاح والفكاهة... والاسـتمتاع بالحياة.
فإن عدت الى السـؤال الذي طاردني طول هذا الأسـبوع، يأتي اليّ الجواب ببسـاطة: نعم، هكذا يموت الأبطال، فمَن عاش بطلاً، يبقى بطلاً أبداً.

وداعاً، عزيزي، في أمان الله.

There are no words

You would need to be living under a rock to have not heard about the devastation that is taking over a little piece of land in the neighbouring country. A country with a controversial name, and a little strip called Gaza.
You need not have followed the news every day – a random 30 second glimpse at any news from there is haunting enough to keep you awake at night.

I have stopped myself from writing here for the past few weeks because I was almost scared of what might come out. Scared that allowing myself the freedom my blog has provided me will bring too many ugly overwhelming feelings to the surface. Because if they did, they would blind me to seeing an end to this tragedy – a possibility that could literally flatten me and my belief that human lives count for something.

But maybe, as coherent sentences fail me, maybe I can just blurt out what has been going through my head in syllables:
Anger
Hurt
Outright injustice
Humiliation
Sadness
Despair
…

Hope.

Funny that I still have hope. Fortunate and blessed that I still have hope, that the inner workings of my subconscious mind still reach that at the end of every silent rant.

You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…

كانون آخر

جاء كانون آخر
جاء بأعياده وبشـائره
وجاء بأحزانه
كانون آخر يشـهد على رحيل حبيبة أخرى
رحيل عمّة ثانية

...أبكرتِ بالموعد يا عمّتي
لم نقوم بعد بآخر زياراتنا
لم نسـتذكر مجدداً قصص طفولتنا التي عاشـت في عينيك

غبت عنّا وغبنا عنك سـنوات طويلة
وعدت الينا اليوم بغيابك

دخل غيابك علينا كزائر انتظر طويلاً على عتبة الباب
لم نراه، يا عمّتي، لم نتوقع قدومه
...ولكنه جاء الآن
جاء في كانون وخيّم كثلج يخفي ملامح الأرض
يغطي على ما مرّ في المواسم السـابقة
يفسـح أمامنا صفحة بيضاء تغيّبك
فنرسـم عليها ما سـكن فينا من ضحكتك
من حبك
من كفاحك
من صمودك
من جمالك...
... نرسـم عليها الى أن يذوب الثلج

The Audacity of Hope

I never thought I would find myself saying this, but today, I would like to take a page from America’s history.

I am not about to comment on how world politics will change now that Obama has been elected president. I have witnessed enough elections, and enough disappointments to know better, to know that no matter who is elected as president of the United States, my beloved region will not fair any better (though often, could fair much worse… Iraq anyone?)

What I am moved by today, what I am awed by, is evidence, this living proof that change is possible. That the overwhelmingly dominant right-wing, prejudiced, capitalist tide that has washed over the world can actually be turned. I am moved to tears to witness that the forgotten, the downtrodden, and the frequently apathetic stood up to be counted, and used what little power they are afforded as citizens to prove the old adage true, ‘every drop in the bucket counts’, and today, it runneth over.
So before you cynically question my excitement, as a distant Arab, at the outcome of this election, let me just point out that all things aside, this is a socio-political milestone that we will refer to for years and years to come as shorthand for the possibility of change.

And now to the man himself – I think there are many more people out there far brighter and well-versed in political analysis than me to offer their views on him as a candidate. I will leave that job to them. There are two specific parts that I want to point to in his victory speech that moved me deeply :

“And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn, I may not have won your vote tonight, but I hear your voices. I need your help. And I will be your president, too.”

“America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves -- if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?”

I probably don’t need to explain why I was moved by these statements, but bear with me as I elaborate – I feel I need to express it. As I said earlier, this election did not echo just because it happened in America, but because all of us everywhere yearning for change in our systems, our own governments or regimes, could not help but stop to reflect and compare. Can you imagine a leader, winning by a landslide, recognizing and admitting that he has arrived to serve all and not just those who supported him? That he has arrived not to turn the tables in favour of his like-minded? Not to take advantage of his new position to break down voters who disagreed with him? I had almost forgotten that that was possible.
And can you imagine a leader, a world leader, finally rising to look beyond his nose out onto the horizon and consider what role his 4 years need to play as a building block for the 96 to follow? The ceiling that was bearing down on us for so many years, keeping our gazes directed at our feet and our daily bread, delicately cracked to attract our sights to the sky.

There will be ordeals to address tomorrow, there will be critiques and criticism… but I will be high on today’s events for some time. I will be clinging to the audacity of hope…

Sleepy Willow

I feel this should be the name of our city these days. I do not recall any sleep fairy dust being blown into our air, or sleepy potion slipped into our water supply. There have been no Snowhite-type poisoned apples in circulation, and no hypnotizing Pied Pipers have been observed around town. And yet, we have been overcome by the slumbers, the ‘soporifs’… we are all very sleepy at rather early hours.

The last thing we remember before this happened was the changing of the clocks. We marked the arrival of autumn-winter by turning our clock back one hour. This has certainly helped the likes of me wake up more easily at it is now no longer pitch dark when my first alarm goes off. However, not unlike pulling the bed sheet from one end, this has also meant that it gets dark much earlier in the day. I always get distracted by the prospect of gaining an hour and forget that an early sunset will also be part and parcel. More so this year as winter arrived early and the euphoria of living a week or two in transitory weather (and hence more sun) was washed away with a series of rain storms.

So we now start getting sleepy because we’re waking up earlier, because it’s dark sooner, and because as the third dark hour passes after a 4pm sunset, our brain remains programmed that it must now be late and systems more or less start to shut down. You may not find any of this sufficiently convincing, but I tried to sell the sleep fairy dust theory and it didn’t fly…

Harsh words spoken

I was recently the target of some bad-mouthing. In typical adult manner, this wasn’t done to my face, but, also in typical manner, it eventually reached me. The colleague, a friend, who felt she should tell me was quite apologetic, while I must admit I felt nothing. All I could say to her was “Consider the source”. The source was known for such antics, usually baseless and usually in disproportionate reaction to something or the other. She was so well known for this that she puts the boy who cried wolf to shame.

Which made me realize that: if a hollow tree falls in the woods, and there actually was someone around to hear it, it still makes no sound.

I am not there...

It may seem to odd to learn a new poem courtesy of an episode of 'Desperate Housewives', then again, maybe not!
I share with you here the Eulogy Mrs. Mclusky spontaneously gave her beloved friend Ida. I know I've come across this poem before, but cannot remember who wrote it. If anybody knows, please enlighten us...

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints of snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn’s rain
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die…